


Stars, hide your fires

by Cybrid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bondage, Claustrophobia, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 18:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21183863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cybrid/pseuds/Cybrid
Summary: A self indulgent drabble about what might have happened if Harry had refused to swear that vow in A Dangerous Game.





	Stars, hide your fires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miraculous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miraculous/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Miraculous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miraculous/pseuds/Miraculous) in the [October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two) collection. 

> **Prompt:**  
Tom ties Harry up so he can't move, spoons him from behind and tells him to go to sleep.  
(Harry fights it helplessly for a long time but eventually tires himself out and falls asleep. Tom is very pleased)
> 
> This is a little side-fic to [A Dangerous Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13059681/chapters/29871909) by Cybrid. If you haven't read it, the gist is diary!Tom kidnaps fifth year Harry from the Chamber of Secrets and blackmails him into swearing a vow by threatening to lock him in a trunk. Thank you to RedHorse for beta'ing!
> 
> The title is stolen from Shakespeare, from the quote
> 
> _Stars, hide your fires;_  
Let not light see my black and deep desires.

“It’s a pity this is necessary,” Riddle said.

But he didn’t sound the least regretful as he tied Harry’s wrists together. He was straddling Harry on the little bed, tongue tucked between his teeth.

It was night time. There was only a candle for light, but when Harry turned his head, he could still make out the shape of the trunk lying open on the floor.

“You want back in?” Riddle asked. “Well, tough. I already gave you the last of my Draught of Living Death, and I’m not going to waste an ordinary sleeping potion.”

He wove the rope around Harry’s forearms, binding them tightly together, wrists facing inwards. Then he forced Harry to bend his elbows, holding his hands tight to the middle of his chest, as if he was praying. The rope looped around the back of his neck to hold them in place.

Harry swallowed. It hurt—his mouth was dry and his throat felt harsh and sore. The last few minutes—hours?—were a blur. He’d woken up by stages, cramped and in the dark. When he had enough lucidity to move, he’d tried to lift his head, only to hit a wall, then tried to kick and hit another. Panic had swept over him like a tide of acid, obliterating all thought. He’d screamed, clawed at the walls, terrified of being trapped in a fetal position in the dark—

Then light. Riddle had dragged him out of the trunk by the hair, an annoyed look on his face.

Now the weight moved off him. Riddle knelt beside him on the bed and shoved his legs together. He tied his ankles, then began weaving the rope up his body, knotting it each time it crossed. It came in one continuous line from his wand, black and soft and silky. Constricting but not coarse, tied over his clothes.

“Riddle,” Harry said. He tried to sit up, but it was hard with his hands tied in front of him. His head was spinning and he felt dizzy, too disoriented to put up a proper fight.

“You don’t want to be tied up?” Riddle asked.

Harry shook his head. No, he did not want to be tied up.

“Tough,” Riddle said, bending his head to his task again. “I gave you a chance to be good weeks ago, but you didn’t want it.”

_ Weeks _ , Harry wanted to say. How could it have been weeks? The last thing he remembered was Riddle holding him by the throat, sadistically forcing him to swallow the bitter potion that had been poured into his mouth.

“This could all have been so much nicer,” Riddle continued. “I’d have treated you kindly, Harry, if only you’d sworn that little vow for me. But you chose to be difficult, so here we are.”

Harry’s legs were tied. Riddle stood back and looked at him, inspecting his handiwork.

Harry rolled on the bed, unable to move. A rush of terror surged through him at how helpless he was, hands tight to his chest, legs tied in half a dozen places so he couldn’t do more than wriggle. Only his head was free.

Riddle’s eyes held cold, cruel amusement. He was enjoying Harry’s struggle.

Harry stilled, glaring hatefully at him.

Riddle smiled back, then reached for a glass of water on the nightstand. He sat on the bed beside Harry and gently supported his head.

“You want to drink? Of course you do. The Draught of Living Death always leaves its victims dehydrated. You’re probably desperate right now.”

Harry’s eyes focused on the glass despite himself. He wanted it. He wanted it so badly.

Riddle could see it in his eyes.

“And look how kind I am,” he gloated. “I’m not even making you beg.”

He held the glass to Harry’s lips. The water was wonderful. Cold, delicious, exactly what he needed. He gave a dry sob, gulping as fast as he could, fingers twitching in their bonds. Then, horribly, the glass was empty and Riddle was pulling away. Harry couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped him.

“I don’t want you needing the toilet in the middle of the night,” Riddle said. He put the glass back on the nightstand with a click, then rolled Harry onto his side, casual, like moving a piece of furniture, not a living, breathing human being. He dragged the quilt over him and blew out the light.

Then, to his horror, Harry felt the mattress dip behind.

“No!” he said. “No!”

Terror made him irrational. He struggled wildly as Riddle pressed himself close behind, chest to Harry’s back, knees tucked behind his. He couldn’t bear to articulate, even in his head, what he expected to happen.

But really, there was only one reason for tying up your captive and then getting into bed with them.

Harry tried to move his hands again, grinding his wrists painfully against the rope. His stomach lurched as he realised how helpless he was, that Riddle could do anything. They were alone here—there was no one to stop him. Any unimaginable cruelty Riddle wanted, Riddle could do. And Harry knew that he had the capacity for cruelty; knew Voldemort’s sadism all too well . . .

Riddle kissed the nape of Harry’s neck—what?—then wrapped an arm over him, over the ropes, snuggling up close behind him like a soft toy.

Harry was trapped between his body and the wall. He braced his legs against it for leverage. He didn’t care what Riddle did, he would survive. And he’d put up such a fight that Riddle never wanted to do it again—

But Riddle didn’t do anything. He stayed perfectly still.

Harry couldn’t turn over to look at him—there was no room. He waited, body singing with tension.

The minutes passed and Riddle still didn’t do anything. Frustrated, Harry shuffled back as inconspicuously as he could. There was nothing . . . alarming . . . happening in Riddle’s pants, so far as he could tell. Would he be able to tell? He’d never been in this position with someone before.

Incredibly, Riddle’s breaths were evening out. His arm was still on top of Harry.

What.

Riddle was asleep.

Harry was almost certain he was asleep.

His body was still tense in the ropes, wracked with indecision. Should he kick him? Wake him up?

“I’ll make you sleep on the floor,” Riddle said sleepily. “No, wait, I’ll put you back in your trunk, tied up, with no potion to give you relief. Now, stop moving.”

Harry lay there, horrified. Why? Why why why? What in the world? What was Riddle doing? Why would he want Harry to—what?

It was a horrible night. Every time Harry was on the edge of falling asleep, Riddle moved, putting him back on high alert. Finally though, his exhausted nerves couldn’t take it, and he drifted into a true sleep.

* * *

He woke up with the dawn. His elbows hurt and he was cramped and wanted to stretch his back. Riddle was still behind him. He was moving—Harry realised that that was what had woken him up.

Riddle yawned. He ruffled Harry’s hair affectionately, then got out of bed and stretched.

Harry rolled onto his back to watch him—then averted his eyes when Riddle pulled off his pyjama top and began doing up a white button-down shirt.

When Riddle was dressed, he casually retrieved his wand from across the room. He climbed back onto the bed, straddling Harry—who struggled, terrified and furious again, pinned by his weight.

He stiffened with fear when Riddle touched his wand to the hollow of his throat and whispered something. Material flowed from his wand and wrapped around his neck. It was hard, like leather—

Harry’s mouth fell open in fury. It was a fucking collar. Riddle had just put a fucking collar on him, like he was a dog—

Riddle took no notice of his outrage. He conjured a metal chain, some two feet long, and attached one end to the collar and the other to the wooden headboard. Then he vanished the ropes.

Harry wanted to hit him, but his arms flopped uselessly on his chest. He groaned in pain as they moved—there were thick marks across his wrists and biceps, red, showing clearly the twist of the ropes.

Riddle clambered off him.

“I’ll bring you something to eat,” he said. “But I expect you to cook tomorrow. If you’re sweet to me, if you make it up to me, I might not use you for anything  _ else _ .”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m a one-trick pony. This was written fast, in one morning, so sorry for any incoherency.


End file.
